


King of Spades

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Caliginous Romance, Dirty Talk, M/M, Podfic Available, Rough Sex, Serendipity - Freeform, Trollstuck, topping from the bottom of the hemospectrum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't a thing Equius <i>does</i>; surrendering to impulses is for other people. He has always been one to measure, to strategize, to rein himself in as best he can. It was a necessity. Even his liaisons to satisfy the drones were more matters of negotiation and restraint than unbridled passion, adequate but not exceptional.</p><p>But as Strider follows him out of the hangar and down the corridor, it's all Equius can do not to turn on him, not to attack him right there, not to pin him to the wall with hands around his throat and knee between his thighs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King of Spades

**Author's Note:**

> Alternately,
> 
> ==> Dirk: fuck the Man.
> 
> ETA: podfic by Rhea available here: http://amplificathon.dreamwidth.org/2020546.html

The whole ship celebrates the rebels' defeat. Officially of course it could have gone no other way; no-one can stand against Her Imperial Condescension's fleet. But the trolls on board the _Vendetta_ know how much effort is involved in ensuring that remains true, and they celebrate their success.

As the Engineer, the troll who calibrated their strikeships' guns and optimized the stabilizers so their fighter pilots could outshoot and outfly the rebels, Equius receives a remarkable share of the credit. If he plays his cards right, the others at the officers' celebration tell him, he should be able to wrest a commendation from the Admiral for this. So new to the fleet, and already making such contributions.

He bears the praise as best he can for as long as he can; he would hate to seem ungrateful. But he can't relax, and the liqueur is served in such delicate glasses that he's constantly afraid of crushing them, and _goodness_ he needs a towel every time someone remarks on the cleverness of his hands. He excuses himself as quickly as he can without giving offense.

The most direct route back to his and Nepeta's quarters passes the hangars that the lowbloods—pilots and infantry, mostly—have turned into their own celebration site. It sounds raucous; music pounds through the walls and shudders up from the floor, and periodically there is cheering. Entirely different from the civilized affair up in the anterior stateroom.

Equius tries to hurry past and retreat to his own refuge, but a tiny figure darts out as he passes the door and his arm is caught fast. "I was afuraid you'd miss the pawty, but there's plenty left!" She tugs on his wrist and Equius, accustomed to humoring her as a lesser evil than allowing her to injure herself on his resistance, takes a step toward the door.

"Nepeta," he says, trying to quell his alarm, "cease this foolishness. This gathering is no place for me."

"Sure it is, silly!" she says. "Efurryone here will be happy to see you. Your hard work made their jobs a lot easier, you know!"

"Still," Equius says, "I should not—"

Nepeta paps his mouth, utterly shameless. "You don't have to make any speeches or anything. It's okay if you're shy! Just come have a drink." Then she fixes him with the ridiculous, pleading eyes that he can almost never resist. "It's impurrtant to me."

Equius huffs in exasperation, but he knows this battle is lost. "You choose the most ludicrous things to insist on," he says. "All right. For a little while."

She beams at him, obviously delighted, and he does his best to ignore the way that still, after sweeps together, makes him feel awkward and tender behind his ribs. _One_ of them has to maintain the dignity of this moirallegiance, after all.

He lets Nepeta usher him into the party, careful not to run into anyone by accident and ruin someone's celebration with broken bones. The music is louder than he would have thought possible, a thrumming, bone-rattling rhythm, and the center of the hangar has been pressed into service as a dance floor; horns flash and toss in beams of colored light as the lowbloods dance. They move with utter confidence and utter abandon, and Equius can feel himself sweating through his dress uniform as he watches.

At some point Nepeta presses a drink into his hand. The cups here are a plain, sturdy plastic, and the liquor in them is honey-sweet and potent; Equius tries to drink only enough to relax somewhat, not enough to actually impair him.

Apart from the chaotic throng of the majority of the room, there is a smaller, clear space being used for an actual dance circle; the music is all wrong and the dancers' protocol is nearly nonexistent, but the basic structure of comballet is still evident. Two dancers, or occasionally three, will take to the circle while the others form a ring around them, giving them a space roughly six paces across in which to move. The dancers prowl through their allotted space, throwing punches and dodging them, sweeping kicks and leaping over them. Actually touching ends the match; the precision required to mime a battle without engaging is comballet's most prized skill.

For all their informality, the dancers in this circle are extremely good. Equius forgets his drink, pays little attention to the impropriety of his being here, distracted—no, _moved_ by this display of martial prowess. These trolls are all talented warriors, despite their poor-to-middling blood: cavalreapers, threshecutioners, ruffiannihilators. They toss their horns in threat and miss each other by scant fractions, fangs bared in delight. Equius feels his own blood humming at the spectacle as he watches them.

As he watches one of them in particular, if he's honest with himself. Brownblooded, to judge from the striping down the seams of his trousers, with bare arms and some sort of design scarred into one muscular shoulder. He moves with breathtaking confidence, sure-footed and fast, and despite the dimness of the room and the commonness of his blood he wears a sharp-angled pair of sunglasses even in the circle. His horns are lightning-jagged, a silhouette that Equius is sure he's seen before, recently, in some other context—

He's a pilot. He's the pilot who made the crucial kill in the battle they've just concluded, pushing Equius's designs to their limit and proving exactly how deadly they could be. He flouted orders to do it, broke formation to take an opportunity, managed to use the lightweight cannon on his one-troll fighter to disable the rebels' hijacked star cruiser. Of course he would be an accomplished dancer as well. Pushing limits appears to be his specialty. Sweat prickles and runs down the back of Equius's neck into his collar. He's staring and he can't make himself care.

The pilot— _Strider_ , even the name he chose for himself defies convention—looks out into the crowd as his latest match ends, scanning as if looking for his next challenger. Then he stops, looking in Equius's direction, and smiles. The smile says _you can't take me on_ , and it puts Equius's hackles up even as he's sure it must be for someone else, someone closer, someone Strider actually knows.

Strider tilts his head, lowers his shades enough to look over them. His eyes are the brilliant orange of molten steel and he is absolutely, without question, looking at Equius. He runs his tongue over the points of his teeth. Equius's heart thuds in his chest, as if he's been infected by the music, as if he's been caught by Strider's demands. He hesitates: this is no place for him, this contest not one he should indulge in. Even if he wants very badly to prove himself in the face of that arrogance.

Another troll steps into the circle and claims Strider's attention. Equius bites down on a growl of frustration he had no intention of making. Where has Nepeta gone? Surely she could talk him through this and help him get control of himself.

He finds her on the edge of the other dance floor, bouncing and spinning, clearly delighted. His heart clenches again, entirely differently than how he felt facing Strider; for all that he knows the impulse is both futile and unnecessary—she's a threshecutioner in her own right, for goodness' sake—he still can never entirely quell the urge to protect her from every threat that the universe holds.

She catches sight of him almost immediately, as befits a hunter of her caliber, and bounds toward him. "You're still making sour faces!" she says, reaching up and trying to push the corners of his mouth upward. When he doesn't concede immediately she relents, moving her hands to his shoulders as she peers up at him. "What's the matter?"

Simply having her there already helps. "One of the dancers in the comballet circle wished to challenge me," Equius says.

"Oooh." Nepeta's eyes go wide. "So what's wrong? Not somebody interesting?"

Equius grimaces. There are certainly unflattering things he could say about Strider, but _not interesting_ is absolutely not one of them. "No, nothing like that. He's...magnetic. But this would be improper, and, and dangerous. He can't know what he's getting into, suggesting something like that with me."

Nepeta pats his arm. "Don't be so sure," she says. "People hear about strength like yours! Besides," she goes on, before Equius can fret too much over the idea that lowbloods are gossiping about him, "doesn't that make the circle a good idea? You're _supposed_ to not touch anyone there."

"And you are supposed to discourage me from doing foolish things," Equius says. He sounds petulant, doesn't he? Bother.

"That's what I'm doing," Nepeta says. "I'm discouraging you from talking yourself out of it! Give me your coat," she adds, beginning to undo its buttons herself, "and go take him up on it." She grins. "You wouldn't want him to think bluebloods are scaredycats, would you?"

"Certainly not," Equius sputters. Not that he truly believes there's much risk, but the idea of it—Nepeta is pushing his dress uniform coat off his shoulders, stripping him of the most visible insignia of his rank. He tells himself nobody is watching. He still feels absurdly exposed.

"Go on," she says, grinning. "If he thinks he's so pawesome, make him purrove it."

Equius would protest—about her lapse into atrocious cat puns while giving advice, if nothing else—except that she has told him exactly what he apparently wanted to hear. His nerves are already alight with anticipation as he makes his way back to the circle.

Strider is still holding court, still matched against the goldblood who claimed his attention previously. Equius takes the opportunity to study his style for a moment: Strider is not only talented, he's arrogant, showing off his control and his power by freezing in difficult poses for crucial seconds, muscles highlighted in sharp relief by the effort. Equius finds himself wishing this were an actual fight; he wants to best that appalling display of overconfidence.

This time, when Strider's victory is assured—a bare brush of claws to the goldblood's throat, just enough to draw a thin line of blood—Equius doesn't wait for someone else to take the opportunity. "Excuse me," he says, calm but commanding, and the circle parts for him: he doesn't have an indigo's ability to affect the subconscious, but when he lets the growl enter his voice it is enough to make most lowbloods submit.

When he steps into the circle, Strider gives him that infuriating, wonderful smile again. "Such an honor," he says. "You're the Engineer who made my ship, yeah?"

Equius nods once. He should have tied back his hair, he thinks absently. It will be a disadvantage when they begin moving. "And you are the pilot who took unsanctioned risks with _my_ ship."

Strider's smile shows more teeth. "You'll make me pretty sorry if you can catch me, won't you?"

"I hope you're not too tired to put up a good show," Equius says.

And oh, he can see the tension rise in Strider's shoulders, knows the insult there was well received. This is absurdly inappropriate, entirely too _public_ , and Equius doesn't care. "Come on and impress me, musclebeast," Strider says. There's a break in the music, a stutter between beats, and as the rhythm kicks back in he moves.

He puts Equius on the defensive immediately, swiping wide and then diving into a low sweeping kick. Those minutes of watching him pay off; Equius knows which way to dodge, how to avoid the followup to the kick without leaving himself off-balance. The forms come back to him as he twists and leaps—he hasn't practiced in far too long, but he knows what he's doing.

The first time Strider attempts one of those flashy freeze moves, Equius drops into a low, floor-sweeping spin that comes close to tripping him. Strider hisses as he leaps back out of range, and his teeth are bared in delight when Equius rolls to his feet again.

They trade a quick flurry of near-punches, weaving in and out of each other's range, telegraphing each motion just enough to make it a give-and-take instead of a bonebreaking fight. A particularly sharp twist makes Equius's shirt tear, the shoulder seam giving way; he rips off the offending sleeve so it can't distract him.

"Fuck," Strider says, and licks his lips. "Save some of that for me."

Equius is sweating through his shirt, and only part of it is the exertion. "Give me a good reason," he demands.

Strider drops into the stance for an actual classic comballet form, one that begins with a series of open-handed strikes. Can he possibly have actual training? Equius moves into the countering pose. "When we're done here," Strider says as his hands move, as the air whistles between them, "I'm going to pin you to the floor and ride your bulge until you're screaming for me."

He doesn't even make it a _suggestion_.

The proper form calls for them both to twist here, drawing back to give each other room for mirrored kicks. Instead Equius grabs Strider's shirt, claws catching in thin fabric, and growls, "Don't disappoint me."

Strider's hand clenches around Equius's wrist hard enough to make the bones ache. "You're on," he says.

They're frozen like that, teeth bared, neither of them moving. This is so _obvious_ , such a spectacle, so unbearably lewd. All of the lowbloods watching them must know where this is going. It's an utter disgrace. Equius can barely keep his bulge from unsheathing right there.

"I need a drink," Strider says. "Come on." He doesn't let go, simply turns for the edge of the circle and pulls Equius along with him. The power in his grip makes Equius tempted to resist, simply to see what would happen; is it possible that Strider is one of the other rare trolls to inherit the gene for exceptional strength? The trait is so vanishingly uncommon that Equius has never met another landdweller possessed of it. He had resigned himself to a life of being exceedingly cautious in every interaction he had that was not supposed to end fatally, but if Strider truly is as strong as he seems—

They reach the makeshift bar and Strider relinquishes his grip to reach for a cup instead. Equius's wrist tingles. "I don't care about the drinks," he says when Strider would offer him one. "I don't believe you do either."

Strider's eyebrows rise, and his lips twitch. "Awfully forward, Engineer," he says.

"I refuse to believe you're offended," Equius says. "Not after that blatant solicitation." What's left of his shirt is _drenched_ by now and his nerves are alight with needs he can scarcely express.

"Oh no," Strider says. "Not offended." His voice is a lazy drawl that makes every syllable an insult, sliding toward the highblood-to-lowblood inflections without quite being clear enough to merit discipline. "Just a little surprised you'd be so ready to go. By reputation, you're supposed to be a stuck-up, protocol-obsessed killjoy with a load-bearing strut up your waste chute about blood color."

Equius clenches his fists hard enough that his claws sting his palms. "Whereas a moment's acquaintance is enough to demonstrate that you are an arrogant loose cannon with no respect for the hemospectrum or any other measure of authority."

Strider shows off his fangs. Equius wants to punch some gaps in that perfect smile. "Real authority doesn't come from what color you bleed and it isn't something some asshole hands you with a uniform and a set of medals," Strider says. "It's something you earn. And if I'm a little too much for some people to handle, that's their problem, not mine."

"You are absolutely loathsome," Equius tells him. "Finish your drink and let's go."

"Your place or mine?" Strider asks. He knocks back the rest of his drink in one go, his throat working as he swallows.

"Mine," Equius says. He doesn't know whether Strider has a moirail, or someone else sharing his quarters; having Nepeta interrupt them would be mortifying but better than risking anyone else's presence.

"Lead the way, _sir_ ," Strider says.

This isn't a thing Equius _does_ ; surrendering to impulses is for other people. He has always been one to measure, to strategize, to rein himself in as best he can. It was a necessity. Even his liaisons to satisfy the drones were more matters of negotiation and restraint than unbridled passion, adequate but not exceptional.

But as Strider follows him out of the hangar and down the corridor, it's all Equius can do not to turn on him, not to attack him right there, not to pin him to the wall with hands around his throat and knee between his thighs. The need is unsettling, so sharp he can taste it in the back of his throat.

Strider maintains a threatening silence until they reach Equius's quarters, then begins to growl softly as Equius enters the combination to unlock the respiteblock door. The sound thrums down his spine and he can barely control his strength well enough to avoid damage to the mechanism. Let Strider truly be as strong as he seems. Strong enough to fight back. Strong enough to _win_.

Equius is first in the door but Strider is right behind him, kicking it shut behind them and then ripping the ruins of Equius's shirt off his back. Defensive instincts take over and Equius strikes out, barely pulling the punch, expecting the wet crunch and sucking gurgle of snapped ribs and pulped lungs. He's lost control, he's ruined this before it starts—

His senses catch up to his fear: he felt the impact, heard a dull thud as his fist struck home, watched Strider stagger back against the door. But Strider is still standing, still baring his teeth in aggression rather than fear, as he presses his hand to the spot.

"It's going to take more than a little love tap like that to impress me," he says. He raises his hands into a brawler's ready stance as he steps away from the wall. "Bring it on."

Equius's blood sings. He throws himself into the contest, letting his control go the way he has only dared do with his robots or with real enemies before. Strider takes his punches and gets up again—Strider hits him and it _hurts_. His mouth is bloodied between Strider's knuckles and his own teeth. The exertion is a delight, a fierce giddy beautiful fury.

Strider trips him, goes down with him in a grappling struggle, orange eyes blazing and bronze blood dripping from his nose. Equius wants to taste it. He wants to fight and then, oh, he wants to _surrender_ , shameful as that is—and it's actually possible that Strider could force him to, willing or not; it's possible Strider could actually _defeat_ him.

He lunges for Strider's mouth, growling, needing the taste of him; Strider's even, perfect fangs sink into Equius's lip and the taste of their blood mingles. They roll across the floor, bruising grips and raking claws, and Strider shoves one leg up between Equius's almost too hard, bruising his seedflap against his pelvic bone where it's starting to unfurl. Equius makes a sound that's half growl and half whine.

Strider laughs into his mouth. "You like that?" He grinds down harder, and Equius's spine arches. "Need somebody to knock you down a little, make you hurt until you remember even bluebloods are vulnerable like everyone else." He doesn't phrase it as a question, and his drawl is thickening, becoming an actual superior-to-inferior inflection.

Equius bites Strider's lip, feels the heat of coppery blood on his tongue, and then Strider's hand is in his hair, dragging his head back. He struggles not to bare his throat. "You are crass, arrogant, presumptuous, a-appalling—hnnn," he breaks off as Strider bites his jaw, shuddering, and it's just as well, because he's nearly certain that he would have gone on to add _brilliant_ and _powerful_ to that list before long.

"I'm _every bit_ as good as I say I am," Strider growls, "and it's hoofbeastshit that I couldn't get recognized for it without flying a ship tricked out by a conceited, standoffish, bigoted coldblood like you."

That Strider would call him that to his face makes Equius's nerves crackle and his stomach roil. "Then we are both disappointed," he says coldly, "because my masterpiece deserves better than a gutterblood like you at the helm."

Strider hits him so hard he sees stars. By the time he can begin to recover from the blow, Strider is already straddling his shoulders, claws hooked into the button fly of his own uniform trousers. He doesn't unbutton, simply _pulls_ : the buttons go flying and the center seam tears, baring his unsheathing bulge and the blood-flushed folds of his open seedflap. His nook is dripping, its fluids warm where they fall on Equius's skin.

"Lick me," he demands, _orders_ , getting a grip on Equius's unbroken horn and dragging him closer. "You want to know what a gutterblood you're pailing, get your tongue up my nook and have a taste."

Equius trembles, caught between conflicting reactions. He _should_ throw Strider off and attack him, make him pay for this outrageous humiliation. But there is a traitorous part of him that's thrilled, rendered helpless with pleasure at being so appallingly used.

When he hesitates, unable to either resist or comply, Strider takes the choice away from him, digging claws into the sensitive flesh at the base of his horn, making him choke on a whimper of pain. Being forced into this depravity makes him sick with need, fury and gratitude and _want_ mingling until all he can do is respond, obey, throw himself into the perversity that Strider demands of him.

He licks the open folds of Strider's seedflap, the soft, wet interior; already the taste of Strider's genetic material is sharp and vivid there. "Come on, don't be a fucking coward," Strider says. "Get your tongue up there so I can feel how much you want it."

Equius does as he's told, his hands on Strider's thighs as he stretches upward and licks his way into Strider's nook, and oh. The sharp copper taste of him is overwhelming, thick fluid coating Equius's tongue and spilling over his chin. When he looks up, he can see Strider curling his free hand around his bulge, squeezing rhythmically, in time with the rippling contractions of his nook.

It's completely depraved, to stimulate someone this way; Equius moans against Strider's flesh. He's soaking through his own trousers and the swell of his bulge presses tight against the seam. Completely depraved and all he wants is for Strider to touch him, too—for Strider to _let_ him have that pleasure for himself as well.

"Yeah, that's better," Strider says, breathy and snarling. "Keep that up, coldblood, that's a much better use for your mouth than any of that crap spilling out of it before." Outrage makes Equius growl, his fingers tightening on Strider's thighs, and there's a tearing sound as the seam of his trousers begins to fail. Strider laughs. "The protest doesn't really stick if you can't keep it in your pants. Should have figured a stuck-up bitch like you would be gagging at the chance to be my pail."

Equius chokes on the sound he wants to make, struggling under Strider's weight, raking his claws down Strider's thighs. He squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself to pull away, to stop cooperating—he could bite, and that would destroy Strider's composure instantly, except that his traitorous flesh craves all the abuse Strider heaps on him, so all he does is press deeper, curling his tongue against the walls of Strider's nook as it clenches around him, quicker and more rhythmic—

And then Strider makes good on his threat, spilling his genetic material in a hot flood all over Equius's face: filling his mouth, splashing his cheeks, running down his chin and throat. Equius coughs and chokes, thrashing helplessly. "Drink it down, coldblood," Strider says. He's merciless. "You like the taste of that, don't you? Proof you've been enough of a greedy nooklicker to make me come."

Everything about him is _terrible_ , and Equius is only sorry that it took so long for them to discover each other. He swallows, stomach roiling at the bitter heat, nook aching with horrified pleasure. For one vulnerable moment Strider relaxes, his guard down as he indulges himself, presumably, in the satisfaction of his victory. One moment is enough.

Equius throws him across the room, equal parts resentful and thrilled when Strider rolls easily and recovers into a crouch rather than remaining shaken. "Round two?" he asks with a gloating smile. "You look good in my color."

"By my count," Equius growls, "this is still round one."

Strider laughs. "We only go by your count if you're winning."

Equius wipes his face on the back of his hand. The smear of Strider's genetic material is a bright bronze affront across the slate gray of his skin. "I hate you," he says, and he's being too honest and it's too soon but his nerves are on fire and he's never been so aroused in his life.

"Come get me," Strider says, more invitation than order, and Equius takes him up on it.

They close quarters too quickly to throw punches, grappling, wrestling, neither of them willing to give up control easily; for a moment Equius gets his thighs clamped around one of Strider's and grinds down, letting Strider feel just how wet he is. Strider moans, bites his shoulder, rolls them over again. His grip is bruising and it takes effort to push back against him, their bulges rubbing against each other as they struggle.

Strider tears Equius's trousers open the rest of the way and for one glancing second his knuckles brush the opening of Equius's nook; that second is enough to make Equius shudder with the need to be filled, and he bucks toward Strider's touch. "More," he says.

"My thoughts exactly," Strider says, but instead of pushing further—even his fingers would be welcome, claws or no; Equius wants _something_ in his nook so badly—he throws a leg over Equius's hips and impales himself. "Oh, fuck," he moans, back arching and muscles taut. "So deep, _yes_."

Equius groans at the needy clutch of Strider's nook around him, the way it further inflames his nerves and makes him even more desperate to be filled. "Y-your selfishness is a poor match for your blood," he grits between clenched teeth, making a half-hearted attempt to throw Strider off. It still feels _good_ ; it just isn't _enough_.

"Would have thought you'd like that," Strider says, thighs clamped to Equius's sides and claws digging into Equius's shoulders, refusing to be unseated. "Fuck, yes, fight me. It's how you assholes run things, isn't it? Take whatever you can from whoever's beneath you. Right now," he even _sneers_ like a highblood, remorseless, "I'm still winning, and that means you give me whatever the fuck I want from you."

He's being _used_ by this arrogant filth, and it makes Equius shudder with need, the walls of his nook fluttering helplessly in search of something to clamp down around. " _Damn_ you," Equius says, too desperate to control his language. "I need—"

"Beg me for it," Strider growls. "Beg me to stuff your sloppy nook, coldblood."

"Y-you are completely abhorrent," Equius gasps. "Please—p-please, Strider, fill me, I need it, need you to, it—" he has to close his eyes to continue but the words won't stop and he doesn't want them to— "it hurts, I want you inside me so much."

Strider shudders hard enough that for an instant Equius thinks he's coming a second time. "Fuck, there you go. Let me hear a 'sir,' you piece of trash."

"Please," Equius chokes, " _sir_ , please." Strider clenches hard around his bulge. He tries to gather enough presence of mind to sharpen his consonants and clip his vowels as he would in addressing a true highblood. "I need you in me, s-sir."

"God, yes, that sounds so good," Strider says, short of breath but still drawling his superior position. "Get your hand on my bulge."

Equius grabs him, squeezing as roughly as he would himself, and Strider's answering snarl is clearly a sound of pleasure. Strider leans back, reaching behind himself; the first brush of his fingers makes Equius buck into the touch, and when he shoves them in, hard and merciless, the pleasure that lances through Equius's body is almost too much to bear.

"Yes," he says, "yes, thank you, sir, so good, yes," and he's debasing himself now even more than Strider demands but it feels good, this terrible illicit pleasure, allowing himself to be taken and humiliated and used by someone who simply refuses to be his inferior, hemospectrum be damned. Every ripple of Strider's nook and every twist of his fingers make Equius keen with pleasure; he has never been so destroyed by a concupiscent encounter, never felt so _owned_.

Strider's movements grow quicker and more erratic, his breathing shallow and harsh, the claws of his free hand digging into Equius's chest, and then he's hissing desperate curses as he thrashes in Equius's lap, his nook flooding with fresh heat. "Don't stop," Equius begs, "please, please—"

"Then give it up for me," Strider demands, shoving his fingers deep, knuckles pressing and stretching the raw entrance to Equius's nook. It hurts, oh, it hurts just right. "Not going to fucking stop, not going to _let_ you get away without coming for me, going to make you even if I have to split you right open to get it out of you," and Equius sobs: just the threat is enough to undo him, to shred the last scraps of his composure and make him shudder through his release around Strider's fingers.

They should have a pail, goodness, should have some way to collect all the material that's going to spill as soon as they move, as soon as—Strider pulls out and wipes his hand on Equius's thigh, lifting himself up without a care for the slick mess that spills down his thighs and across Equius's groin. Even now, in the aftermath, that casual disregard for propriety makes Equius queasy and hopelessly drawn in.

Strider lets himself collapse to the floor, loose-limbed and apparently relaxed. "Holy fuck," he says, and despite the appalling crudeness Equius can't help taking it as a compliment. If he were given to such crude language he would say the same.

"Indeed," he agrees. He feels utterly ruined, bruised and sore and filthy, wrung-out and exhausted. He thinks he still wants to maul Strider, but possibly not until he's slept for a week.

There is a tiny corner of his brain already trying to put words in order so he can tell Nepeta about this; for once in his life he _wants_ to talk about all the things he's feeling. It's going to take forever to find the proper words, and right now he can't stop shaking enough to make a respectable attempt.

Strider at least seems equally overcome; he lies slumped against Equius's side as though simply breathing takes all the effort he can currently muster. They're both quiet now that it's over, quiet and still. There is a strange serenity to it, in the wake of the violence they've just enjoyed. It seems strange to feel _comforted_ by what they've just done, but Equius cannot deny the sensation. He lets himself drift for a little while, simply enjoying the sense of calm and the heat of Strider's skin against his.

"So," Strider says eventually, sitting up and stretching. He winces briefly, to Equius's satisfaction. "You got something steady in your spade?"

Heat washes over Equius's skin again, the knowledge that Strider _meant_ all those filthy things he said. He sits up himself, taking in the wreck of his quarters. Goodness, he'll need to have a maintenance drone in here before Nepeta comes home. "Not steady, no."

Strider nods, glancing over at him. "Let's do this again sometime," he says.

Equius swallows hard. "Is that the best you can do?"

"No, let me rephrase that." Strider's hand lashes out and he grabs Equius by the stump of his broken horn, dragging him down to pin him to the floor. "We're _going_ to do this again sometime. I will hunt you down if I have to."

"Yes," Equius growls, through the invigorating burst of fury in his chest, the giddy _rightness_ of it. "I'll be ready."


End file.
